


Fluff & Sugar Cookies

by TheCourtJester485



Series: Hannigraham One-shots! [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cephy the dog - Freeform, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Cute, Do not post to another site, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Softie, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is tired, Idiots in Love, M/M, Married Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Murder Husbands, Snow, Will Graham Has a Nice Day, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, first winter together so Han makes it special, happy holidays!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtJester485/pseuds/TheCourtJester485
Summary: Returning home after a blizzard on Christmas Eve, Will’s expecting to find Hannibal reading and indulging a glass of brandy; however, he finds his significant other has been busy preparing him with a truly festive surprise...Sometimes, livin' with the ex-Chesapeake Ripper has it’s perks, especially when it involves sugar and spice and everything nice.Happy Xmas folks!
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Hannigraham One-shots! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775353
Kudos: 37





	Fluff & Sugar Cookies

Late home courtesy of a blizzard, Will shambles through the door, the bitter kiss of winter gusts at the exposed flesh of his neck and face, barely managing to close the door behind him; the key slots in and a satisfying _clink_ and _clack_ of chamber mechanisms trigger it to lock. Taking a breath he tousles the locks of snow-speckled hair back and fourth, left to right with his spare hand prior to brushing off his shoulders. He dunks the keys into a wooden bowl beside the door.

Ropes of tinsel, cerise and streaked with gold, travel up the staircase; each of them woven through the stiles like shimmering snakes having been frozen in the lamp light. Candles almost reduced to their wicks are dotted throughout the hallway on the multitude of pine shelves, some of which reside between framed photos of Hannibal and himself alongside a few with Cephy, their two year old Chesapeake Bay. Their wedding portrait hangs above a crystal vase of Lilly's, the centrepiece.

The air’s strangely frosty, the radiator beside him like stone against the back of his palm. _The boiler must’ve died again – I’ll fix it later_. Discarding his shoes and coat, the satchel un-slings from his shoulder. Checking the pouch he’s thankful no snowfall damaged the present. Easing it out, the satchel returns to it’s home on the wall peg next to Han’s coat and Cephy’s lead.

A flare of cinnamon permeates the air. Heading for it’s origin in the kitchen it grows increasingly prominent. Moreover, mint, caramel, ginger and sugar amalgamate with the seasonal spice; taste buds going wild, his mouth waters in anticipation. Far from untidy, a couple of baking trays are stacked on the island counters and the odd cake dish harbours orange crumbs from recent use. Clean glass bowls, whisks and crockery are piled neatly beside the sink. Cephy’s bowl sits next to the fridge as usual with a morsel of a bacon strip left over. He smiles at this. Hannibal’s seemingly yielded to her adorable, pleading emerald eyes once again while he cooked – or baked in this case.

When asked about it in the past, innocent and casual like, Han claimed it’s to keep her from stealing slices of cheese, oven-warm sweetbreads or to save her from chomping relentlessly on his favoured meats mid-recipe: Deer and Pork.

 _Actual_ Pork.

When they brought her home four months ago she (unsurprisingly) ticked him off: constantly begging for treats, whining when she couldn’t sleep in the same room, marking the rug and couch with muddied paw prints – you know the drill, right? Nevertheless, she soon won the stubborn ex-ripper’s heart. Insofar as every now and then Will’s caught him sneaking her scraps with that devilish grin of his; the one he similarly flashes to Will when _he thinks_ he’s unaware…

Back in the moment, his beloved caterer of a husband isn’t here.

The soft dance of Harpsichord strings and the pressing of keys float about the room, the notes faint, yet discernible, predictably from the living room. Considering Han hasn’t yet welcomed him home, as he often does, he imagines he left it playing for Cephy so she doesn’t disturb him if lost in reading – plus, if theirs one commonality the two share other than puppy eyes, it’s a bizarre appreciation for _Goldberg Variations_. Coming to an end, a new track begins, one not crafted by _Bach_.

Curiously, despite being one of the Lithuanian’s favourite compositions, he’s played this one for him rarely, holding it particularly close to heart for some reason; therefore only playing it on special occasions rather than dampening the unique enjoyment of it through steady repetition. Will’s attentiveness when he performs has proven sharp over the modicum of times having heard it; what’s presently gracing their woodland cabin is a song composed by Henry VIII itself:

_If True Love Reigned._

Circling the island he wanders through an archway across from the blackened steel fridge and matching counter surfaces atop mahogany draws and panels. The warm glow and crackling pops emanate a homely atmosphere before he goes wide-eyed at the sight befalling him. The rotations of vinyl in the gramophone is the cause of the symphony. In all it’s magnificence a sizeable Christmas tree stands tall in the corner with it’s shining, glittering balls of red and purple among smaller ones of silver and gold on the branches; silvery antlers hang like icicles. Surrounding it’s base is a shroud of rich satin purple concealing the pot from view. Greater conspicuousness comes as it’s surrounded by gifts wrapped in green and blue, uncanny to the shades of his an Cephy’s irises.

None of these were here this morning.

Mounted at the top is a skull rather than a star – a beauteous image indeed.

Surprising still is the ample feast laid over the coffee table. In the centre is a polished silver tray holding two fancy glasses, a bowl of chocolate and a jug of milk coupled with a kettle pot; apple pie, cranberry pie, a plate of mince pies, a bowlful of figs, gingerbreads, vanilla muffins and a ton of sugar cookies spread in a semi-circle on a red plate like a hand of cards in a poker game – Will chuckles to himself when picking one up for closer inspection – some are shaped like snowflakes, others… aren’t.

_Cute, Doctor. Lecter..._

In his hand is one shaped like the mask from his time at _BSHCI_ – it’s even got the little holes at the mouthpiece in the form of tiny, white chocolate drops outlining them for exaggerated effect.

_real cute._

Putting it back for now his focus draws at long last to his sleeping spouse lying on his side with Cephy tucked snugly in his arms. His honey-brown hair lazily hangs over a brow, his torso bearing one of Will’s navy blue sweaters, his wedding band reflecting glimmers of flickering red and amber from fire and candles both. He’s barefoot at the end of charcoal slacks. Han softly groans when the mutually dozing dog briefly raises her head to yawn, refitting her snout under his chin. He doesn’t stir, merely parts his slender lips.

Will tiptoes around to the armchair, grabs a cashmere blanket off the back and slips it over their sleeping forms. If there was room he’d likely join them – seldom does Han allow her on the couch, let alone cuddled up to him. Instead, he places the present in the only space left on the table, it’s black ribbon bow facing the couch for when he wakes. Plucking off a piece of caramelized bacon from the top of a cupcake he quietly brews a glass of hot cocoa in the fireplace, burning neither himself _or_ the tree in the process, and unlike last time, keeping the metal _clanks_ to a minimum.

Makes a change.

Lets just say ever since Han’s birthday which resulted in a _decimated_ frying pan, Will is often spied upon if attempting to prepare anything above that of salad...

Or when using the toaster...

Adding a slug of the whiskey he’s been saving since July, he takes a swig. The liquid fire melds perfectly with the chocolate; good ol’ home-made outmatches shelf bought, no doubt about that. The amount of time he must’ve spent arranging and wrapping and baking and decorating the mystery tree… all this would’ve taken all damn day. No wonder Hannibal’s out like a light before 10pm.

Outside the bedroom, he’s only human after all.

With soft eyes, Will leans over him, brushing the hair from Han’s face before bestowing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Rather than adopt the armchair he settles for the floor, head leaning back against Hannibal’s arm still draped over Cephy’s stomach. He takes another sip. Closing his eyes he loses himself to the tune of Henry VIII, ready to join them in sleep with total contentment, endearment of his husband’s effort and the taste of spicy chocolate lingering on his lips.

“Happy Christmas, mano meile.”

Hannibal murmurs it back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :-D


End file.
